


couples jewelry

by orphan_account



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Fluff, M/M, Master/Slave, Multiple Orgasms, Possessive Behavior, Self-Lubrication, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:46:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: yifan couldn't have asked for a better pet





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my aff account

“Mm, he’s a spoiled one, isn't he?” Zhou Mi, King of Wuhan hums as he slides beside Yifan and his beloved slave, Zitao.

 

It's well known across the kingdom that Yifan, Prince and heir to the throne, is overly fond of a gift he received two years earlier—a rare, absolutely stunning Kitsune hybrid, with beautiful olive brown skin and piercing grey eyes, who goes by the name Zitao. Zitao had been only seventeen at the time of his gifting to Yifan, though wholly obedient, if only a tad seditious.

 

Yifan is known for the spoils he bestows upon Tao, for it is unheard of for a prince to be exclusive to a single slave or lavish a slave in gifts as Yifan does so openly to Tao. Zitao’s collar is a beautiful band of brushed gold, tiny diamonds circling brilliant, forest green emeralds—Zitao’s birthstone. The collar costs thousands of dollars and emeralds of such clarity and depth are rare and pricey, yet Yifan would have nothing else for his pet.

 

Furthermore, Zitao, when not sleeping in Yifan’s chambers, which are grand and spacious with a goose-feather, double-King mattress, hand-spun sheets imported from Egypt, and fine silk blankets, sleeps in a beautifully decorated room of his own, the entire chamber furnished with furniture, bedding, and artwork exclusively from Qingdao, which Yifan had requested three months into his ownership, when Zitao had sullenly mentioned he was homesick.

 

Yifan still remembers the way Zitao had been presented to him, hands bound at the wrist before him by soft leather cuffs, an equally as minimalist and elegant collar around his neck, dressed in black linens, a sleeveless tunic that was rather low cut, exposing the beginnings of the creature’s toned physique. Zitao had kept his head bowed throughout the entirety of the gifting ceremony, per tradition, though it was plain to everybody that the boy’s features were enviable by the finest men and women in all of the nation, and when Zitao finally lifted his head and peered at Yifan with those unsettling and unflinching grey eyes, Yifan’s heart tumbled.

 

They bonded incredibly quickly, for Yifan is not very strict, and would often call Zitao to his room simply for company rather than intercourse, and as they grew to know each other, Yifan learned of Zitao’s natural playfulness and child-like innocence, a grand contrast to the vixen he transformed into when provoked sensually, but welcomed by Yifan all the same. In the company of each other and only each other, do they drop formalities and reason to be proper, and Yifan allows himself to laugh too loudly and be too affectionate, whereas Zitao gets a taste of the love and true, real happiness that evaded him as a child and teenager during the duration of his training.

 

Currently, they're off guard and relaxed. Zitao is laying against Yifan’s side, his long legs stretched beside him on the sofa-lounge that the two rest on, ears flat against his head, tail swishing contentedly, and Yifan has one arm lazily holding the hybrid close to him, following a grand feast that would undoubtedly become an orgy, if it hadn't already, explaining the reason for low-lying sofas and beds rather than more proper chairs.

 

Though those around the pair are already conducting themselves in incredulous and explicit manners, Prince Sehun already with a writhing and vocal Luhan riding his cock, Lord Junmyeon and Prince Yixing indulging in each other rather than the foods, Yifan and Zitao still eat and share quiet, comfortable conversation. Yifan enjoys fondues strawberries, pineapples, and lychee, and in between his own bites, feeds them to his sweet pet, though Zitao is perfectly capable of feeding himself, he quite likes being treated so grandly, and Yifan has no qualms, for he adores pampering him. Occasionally, Yifan will dip his fingers into the warm melted chocolate and allowing Zitao to clean them with his tongue.

 

Zitao, always pleased to be spoiled with affection, hums happily every time a fruit is brought to his lips by his beloved master, but otherwise let's his eyes flutter shut, lids painted in gold and lined with a smoky black that makes his grey eyes even more startlingly stunning, and drifts somewhere in between consciousness and slumber in the warmth of Yifan’s loose embrace.

 

Yifan barely regards Zhou Mi with any sort of honor—Wuhan, though wealthy, is such a tiny city that Yifan, Prince of Guangzhou, is to be held in higher regard in the hierarchy of respect.

 

It is no secret that Zhou Mi also finds Zitao appealing—he often sends the slave unprecedented and inappropriate gifts, including fine chocolates (which really aren't so fine at all considering the delicacies that Yifan has at his fingertips for Zitao), flowers that wilt within days, and toys—all for sexual use and all with inscriptions of pornographic fantasies which Yifan burns, along with the rest of Zhou Mi’s gifts.

 

“Quite,” Yifan agrees, entertaining the thought of conversing with Zhou Mi, and plucks another strawberry from the fondue platter, licking some of the chocolate off of the surface before passing it to Zitao’s lips, watching fondly as the hybrid doesn't even open his eyes, but takes the fruit in his mouth without question.

 

Zhou Mi chuckles darkly at the exchange of affection, eyes boring into Zitao’s body in such a manner that makes Yifan cautious. Zitao is incredibly desirable, but he is also entirely Yifan's, boasting a burn scar with the characters of Yifan’s kingdom just above his hip bone, born from a regrettably painful incident with a branding iron (again, purely custom) but well worth the pain for the possession with which it marks Zitao.

 

“And how lazy, too,” Zhou Mi hums, eying the curve of Zitao’s behind, as barely hidden by his tunic, his upper thighs and the underlay of his buttocks exposed thanks to his fluffy grey tail, swishing leisurely from beneath the fabric.

 

Yifan frowns, biting his tongue, and leans forward just a bit to grab his glass of wine, deciding that he will indulge himself with alcohol as long as Zhou Mi chooses to indulge in conversation.

 

“Spoken as if leisure is a sin, my lord.” Yifan bites out after a long drink, alcohol crippling his veins. With Zitao in one hand and the glass of wine in another, and his deep red, velvet and fur robes, draped to expose his bare chest, Yifan looks every bit as royal as he truly is, and Zhou Mi cannot help but seethe with envy at the cards the prince has been dealt. To not only be born into and heir to the largest, wealthiest, and most powerful kingdom in the nation, but to also possess as beautiful and rare a creature as a kitsune from Qingdao? It simply isn't fair.

 

Still, Zhou Mi keeps his cool—and presses his luck—and dares to trace Zitao’s bare ankle, watching as the hybrid tenses up and his pretty toes curl, but not from pleasure or a chill.

 

Yifan’s eyes narrow, and he glares at Zhou Mi’s hand, clutching Zitao more possessively now.

 

“Careful with your boundaries, my lord,” Yifan growls. “You of all people should know better than to chase what isn't yours to hold.”

 

Zhou Mi has often received scolding a from Yifan’s father, and less civilized and proper cursing a from Yifan himself in regards to the inappropriate manner in which he conducts himself around the Wu Kingdom’s slaves (thought primarily around Zitao), but the Lord only passes the remark with a hearty laugh, and stills his hand but is yet to remove it from Zitao’s skin.

 

“Oh, watch your temper, Prince Wu!” Zhou Mi warns, and tugs lightly on Zitao’s tunic. “Forgive me for overstepping my boundaries—You simply cannot dress such a delicacy like this and expect not to share.”

 

Zitao whines, but knows that it's not his place to reject Zhou Mi’s assault if his master has not yet objected. He looks up at Yifan, eyes unreadable, and hides his face in the soft fur of Yifan’s robes, wishing Zhou Mi away.

 

Yifan can feel something boil in his blood, though it is not the burning alcohol. He slaps Zhou Mi’s hand away from Zitao’s tunic. “I will dress what is mine however I please.” He growls, as civil as he can be given the circumstance, and yanks Zitao’s tunic down to a more modest length, the hybrid’s tail now coiled around his own thigh, which Yifan, after two years with Zitao, now knows is a gesture of discomfort.

 

“No need to be so defensive, Prince.” Zhou Mi cooes, reaching forward to grab a chocolate-covered strawberry. “Perhaps you should dress your things more modestly if your eyes are so green. I’m sure between the two of us we could satiate your little whore.”

 

Yifan’s grip on Zitao tightens until the little kit whimpers beneath him. Zitao is dressed rather provocatively, but as are the several other slaves and hybrids in the banquet, if they are even dressed at all. Zitao’s lack of modesty does not come from his oversized tunic, the neckline plunging low, showing his collarbones and much of his chest, but rather from what is underneath it. Contrasting beautifully against his olive skin, across his chest, is the gold chain that connects a pair of nipple clamps, each piercing Zitao’s sensitive, dark nipples—why, the lightest tug of the chain will have Zitao mewling in heat—and further south, a sex toy—a sizeable, but not too grandiose, plug is wedged between his cheeks, keeping his hole nice and stretched open, should Yifan decide to play with him later.

 

Instead of replying directly to Zhou Mi, Yifan taps three times on Zitao’s hip, a wordless request for Zitao’s attention, and the slave raises his head up obediently, smoky grey eyes peering up at Yifan, and with a sinister smile, turns until Zitao is practically lying against his chest, Yifan facing Zhou Mi, and cups Zitao’s cheeks, lifting his kitsune’s face and claiming his lips.

 

The kiss isn't sweet or slow like the kisses they share when in each other’s company, but dominating and controlling. Yifan’s tongue forcing its way into Zitao’s mouth, their noses bumping together unceremoniously, and Zitao begins to testily fight back, pressing his tongue against Yifan’s, flirting with his control, but Yifan retaliates by biting Zitao’s tongue, none-too-gently, and and Zitao’s grey ears, peppered with flecks of red, fold back flat against his head and he moans softly, understanding that his position tonight is as Yifan’s perfect submissive slave.

 

Content with Zitao’s submission, Yifan draws away from him, a thin strand of saliva still connecting their lips, but instead of licking it away, Yifan pulls away, allowing it to make a mess of Zitao’s chin.

 

He presses his forehead against Zitao’s, completely ignoring Zhou Mi, and drags his hands down Zitao’s back, his pet shivering deliciously at his master’s touch.

 

“Are you going to be good for me?” Yifan whispers, hushed against Zitao’s lips as he pushes the tunic up around his hips, showing off Zitao’s supple ass, dangling it right in front of Zhou Mi’s face.

 

Drunkenly, though he is as sober as the day he was born, intoxicated only by the fumes and taste of his master’s breath, Zitao nods, eyes going glassy, as they often do when the haze of lust and pleasure begins to overtake his mind. He can be good—he can be so, so good.

 

Yifan grins and presses a kiss to the tip of Zitao’s nose, each of his hands taking one of Zitao’s ass cheeks, his fingers digging into the flesh. He spreads the pretty globes of Zitao’s ass wide, forcing the nympomaniac to widen his legs a little, exposing the absolutely filthy, vulgar wetness that's smeared across his thighs and crack, the silver, flared base of the toy inside of him glistening.

 

Zhou Mi’s mouth goes completely dry, and he stares at Zitao’s wet, twitching hole, his mouth hanging open dumbly.

 

Zitao self-lubricates, and his wetness has smeared all along the crack of his ass and the inside of his thighs, and had either Yifan or Zhou Mi been hybrids as well, they would've been able to smell the sweet pheromones from his body. They would've also, just as easily been able to smell Yifan’s dominating scent that overpowers Zitao’s senses and marks his possession.

 

Yifan smiles darkly at Zhou Mi’s loss of words—it seems that Zitao has sucked the breath from him—and turns his attention back to pampering his spoiled little pet.

 

Zitao is staring hazily at Yifan, pretty grey eyes looking more blue, and Yifan can tell Zitao is treading along the fine lines of his subspace. He becomes so submissive when Yifan wants him to be, and Yifan absolutely adores it.

 

Yifan reaches forward and dips his index and middle fingers into the chocolate fountain, the warm, sticky sweetness dripping from his fingertips and making somewhat of a mess, before carefully lifting the appendages to Zitao’s lips, Yifan and Zhou Mi watching in earnest, Yifan with a knowing grin on his face, looking somewhat sinister to the outsider, Zhou Mi with a gaping, opened mouth.

 

Zitao suckles on Yifan’s fingers like a newborn, his tongue swirling around the chocolate covered digits, cheeks hollowing as he sucks, putting on a show for Yifan and their bystander.

 

“So good,” Yifan cooes, scissoring his fingers around Zitao’s tongue. He knows all too well what that soft, kittenish tongue feels like when it is swirling around the head of his cock, knows what Zitao’s tight throat feels like, even tighter when he’s choking down and swallowing Yifan’s length.

 

Zitao's ears flutter and flicker against his head, his tail beginning to swish lazily to and fro as he indulges himself on his favorite treat. He loves Yifan far more than a slave should, and it goes against all of his training and everything he’s ever been told. Slaves must distance themselves. Slaves must not form an emotional attachment to a master who feels nothing for them. Slaves will know the difference between pleasure and lust, and true love.

 

Zitao likes to think that he knows all of that, and he tried, at least in the beginning, to follow his silent commandments, but Yifan is kinder and more liberal than Zitao could have hoped for in an owner, making it so easy for Zitao to fall for him.

 

Yifan is not abusive and cruel, and he only ever leaves lasting marks upon Zitao’s skin when Zitao is consenting. He’s conscious of Zitao’s feelings, and treats him like a person rather than a pet, confiding in Zitao’s opinion for things that Zitao knows he would normally have very little, if any at all, say in, and Yifan also overrides anybody who tries to speak over Zitao or down to him.

 

Yifan is so easy to love, and Zitao has made Yifan his whole world—he adores his master because his master adores him, and it is in Zitao’s kitsune nature to please and be pleased.

 

There’s no longer any chocolate on Yifan’s fingers, and they both seem to know this, yet Yifan doesn't draw his fingers away, nor does Zitao stop lavishing them with affection.

 

Yifan threads the fingers of his free hand through Zitao’s hair, fanning back the hybrid’s bangs and watching the ashy blond strands part through his fingers.

 

“Do you know what's so wonderful about him, my Lord?” Yifan suddenly asks, the question directed towards Zhou Mi, yet Yifan dares not pull his gaze from Zitao, whose eyes have fluttered shut.

 

Zhou Mi manages to compose himself enough to clear his throat and offer his own retorts, though his attention is somewhat muted in favor of watching Zitao’s small mouth work around Yifan’s fingers, imagining it going to work on a completely different appendage.

 

“His constant willingness to be fucked?” Zhou Mi offers with a grin, thinking himself to be clever.

 

Yifan does nothing to hide the grimace that takes his face, the furrowing of his brows and snarl of his lips. What a vulgar answer, and so telling of Zhou Mi’s character.

 

Zitao, just like anybody else, is not always eager to spread his legs, and though the days when he is not “constantly willing” are few and far between, they are well communicated to Yifan, and well respected. Zhou Mi has unknowingly exposed his true nature, and it’s somewhat sickening to Yifan.

 

Yifan has always been somewhat disgusted by the treatment of slaves, even before he received Zitao, he was known for being a bit friendlier towards the servants and slaves around the royal grounds, avoiding the term slave any time he could. In his mind’s eye, though the class system may imply differently, no human (or humanoid, in the case of hybrids) is below another.

 

He only became kinder when gifted with Zitao, and now often speaks for the rights and equality of servants and hybrid slaves.

 

In the presence of Zhou Mi, Yifan is very grateful that Zitao ended up a member of the Wu household, and under Yifan’s authority, nonetheless. To think of such a beautiful and intelligent being, wasting away as little more than a sex slave, when his potential is boundless and fed under Yifan’s rule, is somewhat infuriating for Yifan to think about. If he had to see Zitao as Zhou Mi’s, he doubts he would be able to control his temper.

 

“No.” Yifan drawls, removing his fingers from Zitao’s mouth. He grabs Zitao’s chin, holding so lightly that his grip would bruise not even a peach—he doesn’t have to force Zitao to do anything. Yifan’s kindness alone is enough for Zitao to be obedient when the time calls.

 

Yifan presses his forehead to Zitao’s again, watching the hybrid’s little, pink tongue dip from between his lips, and swipe a glistening wetness along his pouty lower lip. Those beautiful grey eyes are fixated on Yifan, and nobody else, and it sends a delicious chill down Yifan’s spine. Anybody else, Zhou Mi included—Zhou Mi especially—should feel so lucky to be in such a beautiful creature’s presence in their own pathetic lives.

 

“His greatest quality—” Yifan begins, each of his words brushing over Zitao’s lips, and Zitao absolutely eats them up, ears sticking straight up, flickering after every other word.

 

Yifan glances at Zhou Mi and licks his lips. “—is that he knows exactly who he belongs to.” The heir’s gaze falls back to Zitao. “Don’t you?” Yifan’s syllables pour from his lips like they would a drunkard’s, only with an elegance and seduction so refined that they favor oil more than they do alcohol.

 

He can see that deviant little sparkle in Zitao’s eyes, watches the way the corners of Zitao’s lips twitch upward as he fights a smile, knowing what role he’s playing tonight as he nods overzealously.

 

Zitao’s hands begin to flit across Yifan’s body, his fingertips so soft and delicate, just as his hands are.

 

“Master,” Zitao exhales, voice gentle and whiny, and at their side, Zhou Mi inhales sharply, resulting in a dark laugh from Yifan.

 

Oh, how badly everybody wants him to be sinister!

 

Yifan cups one of Zitao’s hands in his own, having always loved the way they fit together, as though they were made for each other and guides the appendage downwards, past his abdomen, and further still, until Zitao’s fingers find the prominent hardness that tents his loose trousers.

 

On his own, Zitao gives Yifan’s hard-on a gentle squeeze, earning a chuckle from his master.

 

Yifan grabs Zitao’s chin again, bringing their faces close together, staring the temptress in the eyes. “You know what I want, don’t you?” Yifan asks, voice nauseatingly sweet.

 

This time, Zitao cannot fight his smile, and sly and enticing is the cast that takes his face as he nods, and without any further instruction, nor any true need for further instruction, peels himself from the lounge (and finally, distancing himself from Zhou Mi), his tail swinging leisurely behind him.

 

“Master.” Zitao purrs again, saying so much with such a single word, and willingly lowers himself to his knees between Yifan’s legs.

 

Yifan has never, nor would he ever put Zitao on his knees, having always thought it to be disrespectful to put somebody on their knees for a sexual act, but when Zitao does it willingly and of his own accord, Yifan cannot tell him to do otherwise. His will is of his own.

 

Having known that such a festive and occasion-less banquet would evolve into nothing short of an orgy as the night progressed—the beauty of his kingdom—Yifan dressed appropriately, his pants loose-fitting black trousers, beneath which he is as bare as the day he was born.

 

Zitao, thorough in his training and in his nature, nuzzles Yifan’s cock through the thin fabric, his ears pressed flat against his head as he disregards everything around them, even Zhou Mi, in favor of suffocating his senses in his master.

 

His tongue, having earlier teased Yifan’s fingers and Zhou Mi’s mind, presses against the head of Yifan’s cock, wetting the black fabric and teasing Yifan with how close yet how far the heat of Zitao’s mouth is. Zitao mouths all along the length of his master’s hard on, until Yifan is sighing and passing his hands through Zitao’s hair, fingers stopping to stroke the base of Zitao’s ears, contemplating his own commandments.

 

Yifan’s hips roll against the teasing pressure of Zitao’s mouth—God, how he wants that messy, wet heat around his dick, and not just toying along the outside of his pants.

 

“Give them a show.” Yifan murmurs, well aware of Zhou Mi’s voyeuristic eyes on them, and a bit less so at the way Prince Sehun and Luhan, apparently having taken a breather, are watching Zitao and Yifan with amusement in their vision.

 

Zitao needs no further command, humming softly in acknowledgement of his master, and hooks his fingers along the waistband of Yifan’s pants, the heir lifting his hips up just a bit to make the slide easier.

 

Yifan is not bashful and does not flush even in the slightest when his cock is finally freed, laying at attention along his abdomen, the head red, leaking clear precum, veins along the shaft almost angry with their prominence.

 

Zitao salivates, and takes the throbbing member in one of his hands, feeling how heavy and hot it is, and wanting nothing more than to feel the weight choking him. He desires every part of his master, though, and before bringing his tongue to lap at the precum dribbling down the head of Yifan’s penis, Zitao bows his head and presses his nose to the base of the shaft, tongue lapping at Yifan’s balls. The musk and scent of his master is so strong here, so fulfilling, that Zitao can’t help but moan happily, worshipping Yifan’s cock.

 

Yifan sighs again, taking great care to keep his responses to a minimal level. Just as there are certain things he would never do to Zitao in public—including fuck him, because that is a sight reserved for Yifan’s eyes only—Yifan knows there are things that Zitao prefers stay between the two of them, including his own moans.

 

“You’re so good.” Yifan praises, allowing his head to loll back against the lounge as Zitao suckles on his sac. The kitsune’s ears flicker back and forth happily at the praise.

 

He moves along, Zitao, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses up the length of the shaft, making Yifan groan Zitao lifts his lips to the red mushroom head, and his cute tongue peeks out again, licking tentatively at the precum spilling from Yifan’s cock, the tip of his tongue swirling about the top, little circles drawn out around the slit.

 

Yifan fists Zitao’s hair, and though it’s not a gentle hold, Zitao doesn’t mind. In fact, he welcomes it, loves the way Yifan treats him like a doll outside of sex, but isn’t afraid of breaking him in the act.

 

Never wasteful, however, Zitao pauses his ministrations and lowers his head to Yifan’s abdomen, licking away the precum that drooled onto his skin, staring up at Yifan with those pretty eyes, and when Yifan looks down and meets that gaze, he instantly closes his eyes again.

 

God, Zitao’s eyes tear him apart—they’re the one thing that can break Yifan and shatter his resolve, and Zitao knows it.

 

As lovely as it is to tease his master, as much as he adores feeling Yifan’s touches grow more urgent and demanding, Zitao finds his patience running low as well, and he strokes Yifan a few times, pumping back and forth and squeezing his shaft a little bit tighter than one might think to—but Zitao knows his master, knows exactly what he likes.

 

Not timid in the slightest, Zitao brings his lips back to the head of Yifan’s cock, kisses it, and takes it into his mouth, earning another triumphant sigh from Yifan. He swirls his tongue about the head again, mouth wet and tight and hot, as though he were made for sucking dick, and Zitao slowly takes his master in, inch by inch, salivating liberally, caring little about the mess he’s making, knowing that it will make the slide easier later.

 

He gets halfway, or perhaps a little less, before pulling off with a wet pop!, strands of saliva still connecting them together, and Zitao can already picture how sloppy he’s going to become later. Just as Yifan likes it.

 

Yifan’s eyes flutter open at the loss of heat, and he shakes his head, chiding his pet. “Ah, ah,” Yifan ticks, fisting Zitao’s hair and pushing him back towards his cock. “Finish what you’ve started.”

 

The impatience in Yifan’s voice is not lost on Zitao, and the saucy little fox laughs airily, licking his lips before settling down on his haunches and gazing at Yifan as if there is no place he would rather be than between his legs.

 

“Yes, Master.” Zitao murmurs, seconds before taking the head of Yifan’s cock in his mouth again.

 

He is no stranger to Yifan’s length, as impressive as it is, Zitao knows he can take it all and thrives off of how proud Yifan gets every time he does. He loosens his jaw, keeping it slack until his saliva is messing his chin, and presses his tongue to the heated underside of Yifan’s cock with a sigh to open his throat. He can feel the throbbing veins as he chokes Yifan down, and there is something so dark and pleasing in the idea that Zhou Mi is watching them so intently, probably stroking himself to the very sight of Zitao, eyes squeezed shut, throat and chest convulsing and heaving around Yifan’s cock.

 

“Oh—that’s it,” Yifan cooes, both of his hands in Zitao’s hair as he watches Zitao take him in. “Almost there.”

 

Zitao whines softly, though Yifan isn’t quite sure why, but the vibrations go straight to Yifan’s core and make his muscles contract as he tries his best to keep from fucking right into Zitao’s mouth. He lets his head fall back again, groaning as Zitao mewls, his mouth so small and wet and hot—like a precursor to his twitching little hole.

 

Yifan only opens his eyes and looks back down at Zitao when he feels his pet’s nose press against his belly, and hears the strained breaths that Zitao is taking through his nose, feels the entirety of his cock as it’s squeezed by Zitao’s convulsing throat. He can feel every flutter of muscle in Zitao’s mouth—the gentle flick of his tongue, the almost unbearable contracting every time the pet swallows—it’s almost too much.

 

Zitao’s ears are pressed flat against his head, and his tail has fallen limp, though Yifan isn’t concerned. Often, when Zitao is focused on a task, his tail will lie idle.

 

Yifan pushes Zitao’s hair back and continues to rake his fingers through the strands, humming and cooing softly, knowing that Zitao responds positively to any kind of affection.

 

“Look at me, Zitao.” Yifan commands gently, one of the few actual orders he’s given tonight. “Let me see those pretty eyes.”

 

Ever-so-obedient, Zitao whines—Yifan can tell his breath is running short—and opens his eyes, looking up from Yifan’s lap with a filmy, teary red gaze, those smoky greys pleading for everything and nothing all at once—and Yifan moans, almost cumming just at the sight of him.

 

He rolls his hips up once into Zitao, testing the kitsune’s weariness, and it must catch Zitao by surprise, because he pulls off of Yifan almost instantly, coughing softly and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Yifan’s gaze softens, but just as he goes to stroke Zitao’s cheek and check on him, Zitao is bowing his head again, mouth open, and this time, he takes the entirety of Yifan’s length in one go—Zhou Mi murmurs an audible, fuck, beside them that makes Yifan laugh.

 

He had forgotten about their voyeur—perhaps it really is time to put on a show.

 

Yifan knows all of Zitao’s weaknesses and signals, in fact, Yifan knows Zitao’s limits better than Zitao himself, so he’s not worried about hurting his sweet pet, especially not now that Zitao has proven his eagerness.

 

“Such a good boy,” Yifan praises, and begins a slow but deep rhythm in and out of Zitao’s mouth, pulling out halfway, Zitao’s lips stretched red over his cock, before sliding steadily back into the heat that welcomes him so.

 

God, it feels so good—Zitao is so good, so perfect for him—that Yifan can’t help his own irregularities, holding so tight to Zitao’s hair that it makes the babe’s tail thump on the ground.

 

“Be good.” Yifan reminds him, words choked, and with very little warning, begins to fuck into Zitao’s mouth, bucking his cock in and out of his pet’s wet throat, and Zitao gasps for air when he can, drooling a mess onto Yifan’s cock that does, in truth, make the slide so much more pleasant and easy.

 

Zitao braces one of his hands on Yifan’s thighs, feeling his awareness begin to drift as he mindlessly hollows his cheeks and sucks Yifan in as much as he can, given the irregular pace, and the effect he has on Yifan is devastating.

 

“Fuck,” Yifan growls, pulling out of Zitao’s mouth until just the head of his cock is resting on Zitao’s tongue, and Zitao looks up at him, lashline heavy with tears that are born from reflex only, and gasps for air.

 

Zitao is so pretty—so so pretty—especially when he’s beginning to look as wrecked as he is, and the possessive drawl in Yifan only wants to prove to the world who Zitao belongs to.

 

Something wicked and somewhat perverse in nature foils Yifan’s thoughts, and deviantly, he smiles.

 

“Look at him.” Yifan orders, finding humor in the way Zitao’s eyes grow wide, and he gasps, tongue still cradling the head of Yifan’s cock. His gaze flickers between Yifan and Zhou Mi, who looks equally as surprised.

 

Yifan can sense Zitao’s apprehension, and he lets one of his hands fall from Zitao’s hair to his cheek, and strokes the skin gently with the back of his knuckles, reassuring the pet of their relationship and the trust they share—and with such a pure and telling gesture, Zitao cannot find it in himself the desire to disobey.

 

Though odd, as Zitao finds himself pressed to the base of Yifan’s cock for what will be the final time that night, Zitao locks eyes with Zhou Mi, who is staring at him with the most bewildered expression Zitao has ever seen on a person, and Zitao would’ve laughed if it weren’t for Yifan fucking his throat.

 

Yifan’s thrusts become erratic, and they tease Zitao’s barely-there gag reflex until the tears budding along his lower lashes cascade down his cheeks, and he begins to moan around Yifan’s length, perhaps a bit louder and less reserved than actually necessary, the fingers on Yifan’s thigh curling into the fabric bunched up there, and Zitao can’t help but close his eyes again and let himself be used as a toy for Yifan’s pleasure.

 

As he drifts, he realizes that Yifan is saying something to him—look at me, look at me zitao, be good and take it all—and Zitao, wanting to be good for Yifan, always wanting to be good for Yifan, opens his eyes and lets his gaze bore into his master’s, nevermind how red and watery his eyes are, and how his makeup is now smeared around the corners of his eyes, his lips swollen and red and—fuck, that’s all Yifan needs.

 

“Fuck, Zitao, Zitao, Zitao,” Yifan chants, thrusting into Zitao’s mouth one, two, three more times, and on the third thrust and mantra of Zitao’s name, he presses Zitao’s head down until he can feel Zitao’s chin on his balls, and thrusts shallowly into what little room he has, his body seizing as he sends ropes of white down Zitao’s throat—and like a good boy, Zitao swallows every drop that comes his way, until the constricting of his throat is too much for Yifan to handle.

 

Yifan pulls Zitao off of his dick, but a bit prematurely, and a final two ribbons of cum spurt across Zitao’s face, decorating his lips and cheeks, and Zitao shudders at the feeling of his master’s hot cum, and he falls against Yifan’s leg, his head lolling against his master’s thigh, and licks the semen off of his red lips, chest heaving as he works to regain his breath. His master and Zhou Mi begin to exchange words above him, but it is all figuratively and literally above Zitao’s head, so Zitao busies himself with collecting the cum off of his face and licking his fingers clean. 

 

Yifan massages one of Zitao’s ears, silently praising him for doing so well.

 

“That was—” Zhou Mi begins, feigning disgust, even though Yifan knows that the perverted older man enjoyed every second of it—so much so that he’s still watching Zitao, whose tail has begun to swing back and forth again in his own afterglow of having pleased Yifan.

 

“Stop looking at him.” Yifan demands, his voice cutting and harsh, tones he would only use while in command, and Zhou Mi startles, looking at Yifan.

 

“Not only does Zitao know who he belongs to,” Yifan starts. “But now you do too.” His gaze narrows into something no longer personable, or even remotely passable as personable.

 

“I strongly advise you leave before I have all funding to Wuhan halved—and then you can explain to your people how you lost your strongest ally because you couldn’t control your voyeuristic tendencies.”

 

Zhou Mi pales considerably at the threat, knowing very well that Yifan will have it done if he does not take heed of his requests. Yifan’s kindness is most definitely not weakness, and stumbling dumbly too his feet, Zhou Mi bows halfheartedly, his gaze again lingering on Zitao, before taking his leave.

 

With the nuisance gone, Yifan can now tend to Zitao as he pleases, and he tugs lightly on the hybrid’s ear, getting his attention. Zitao looks up at him, dazed, and the stare is so cute that Yifan smiles, and pats his other thigh, inviting Zitao to sit in his lap.

 

“Don’t stay on the floor,” Yifan murmurs, and Zitao nods and stands up on wobbly legs. Zitao is just as needy as Yifan is, however, and the kitsune flushes a deep red when he realizes that he’s made a mess of his legs, slick all along his thighs and making him feel sticky and demanding, and his own cock is rock solid.

 

Yifan laughs in good nature at this, and can already feel his cock stirring to life at the mess between Zitao’s thighs—even more so when Zitao settles across Yifan’s lap, unable to control the wetness from smearing across both of their bodies, and Zitao positively burns with embarrassment, whining softly and hiding his face in the crook of Yifan’s shoulder.

 

“Master,” Zitao cries softly, and Yifan cooes, brows bowing as if he’s apologetic, though he really isn’t, and palms Zitao’s cock underneath his tunic. The hybrid squirms and moans softly, always so responsive.

 

“Oh, baby,” Yifan whispers, words hushed against the shell of Zitao’s ear. “Don’t worry,” He begins stroking Zitao’s cock, slowly and languidly.

 

Zitao visibly trembles, belly filling with anticipation for the rest of the night.

 

“I’ll take care of you.” Yifan promises, kissing Zitao’s neck.

 

And oh—does Zitao know that Yifan will.

 

Yifan always does.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zitao couldn't have asked for a better master

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crossposted from my aff account

“You like this, don't you?” Yifan growls against Zitao’s neck, still riding the high of his own orgasm and the watchful eyes of the other officials around them. As possessive as he may be, and still currently is, Yifan can’t help but bask in the attention that Zitao draws without making even a sound. Though opposed to most, if not all of the traditional beliefs and customs that having a slave encourages into normalcy, Yifan does enjoy showing Zitao off. Such a beautiful creature should not be hidden away, even if some moments are more intimate behind closed doors.

 

He strokes slowly Zitao’s cock, teasing the hardness, and mouths against the kitsune’s neck, marveling at how his hot breath against Zitao’s pressure points make him sigh and whine, head rolling back to bare his neck in submission. It’s a natural reaction, and if Yifan were a hybrid, or perhaps a genetic alpha, his imprint would’ve roared in satisfaction, and yet, though lacking the genetic makeup and primal drive to formally mate Zitao as another hybrid or kitsune would, Yifan still grins at the way Zitao’s head falls back.

 

“You like being watched?” Yifan breathes, breath warm, against Zitao’s neck. His tongue licks a wide, wet stripe up Zitao’s neck, and he feels Zitao’s vocal chords hum in pleasure at the vulgarity of it all—the exhibition, the public displays of affection, the fact that he can still taste his master upon his tongue, coiling in his belly.

 

Zitao nods dumbly in response to the question, his training having ingrained in him to always answer when asked a question (a reflex that Yifan often takes advantage of during sex).

 

“Ah—Oh, master,” Zitao whines when Yifan sucks a dark mark along his collarbone. His hips roll against Yifan’s hand, wanting more pressure, more friction, but in a different place, a different area. He wants to be stretched full of Yifan, split down the middle and consumed entirely by him.

 

Yifan grins, and the hand that isn’t fisting Zitao’s cock at a pace that he knows is too slow, comes up to support Zitao’s head, tilting the hybrid’s face forward again until their foreheads are touching.

 

Zitao’s eyes are squeezed shut, his ears pressed flat against his head, and he’s becoming whiny and needy, as he habitually does when provoked with sex and pushed into a more submissive position. In the back of his mind, Yifan considers Zitao’s needs for aftercare. They very seldom bring elements of dominance and submission into their sex lives, and Zitao is always more vulnerable to drops after more intense play, and the last thing Yifan wants is for his beloved hybrid to feel unloved.

 

Their lips are close, Zitao can feel the heat of Yifan’s breath against his wet, swollen lips, and he parts his lips, allowing his little, pink tongue to press between his teeth. Yifan grins at this, and his eyes sparkle with something a bit devious.

 

He loves his pet so very much, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a bit cruel during sex.

 

“Taozi,” He sings, voice sickly sweet with affection, and while it’s all genuine, for he has no need to manipulate Zitao, the contrast between the sweetness of his voice and the vulgarity of his actions is stark.

 

Yifan presses his thumb hard against the slit at the head of Zitao’s dick, and to no surprise, the kitsune’s eyes fly open and his back arches, he clutches onto Yifan as though a bolt of electricity has just been shot up his spine. He gasps, the inhale ending with a cry.

 

“Mmm—Master!” Zitao’s eyes, wet grey, stare at Yifan, pleading for everything and nothing, pleading for the stars to burst behind his eyelids, and he grinds his hips hard against Yifan’s lap, not at all startled at Yifan, already rock-hard, pressing against the clefts of his ass and torturing him with pressure against the butt plug wedged between his ass cheeks.

 

Yifan’s brows bow together, almost sorrowful of how demanding and teased Zitao is—but he doesn’t plan on keeping this up much longer. Not only are his own desires becoming too pressing to ignore, but he knows that it is cruel and unbearably so to deny a hybrid, especially the vixen kitsune, their sexual gratification. The desire that coils in their bellies can become painful, and Yifan cannot bear to see Zitao in real pain.

 

“Do you want more?” Yifan asks, pressing a quick kiss to Zitao’s lips. Zitao’s tail sways behind him, the tip curled inwards into a little floppy swirl. Zitao’s tail does this a lot, and Yifan finds it endearing

 

Zitao nods again, incapable of words, yet he babbles anyways. “Fuck me,” He whines, voice airy and high, and he reaches down between Yifan’s legs, where Yifan has tucked his cock away, and frees it from Yifan’s loose trousers.

 

Yifan is hard, hot, and heavy again, drooling precum as Zitao’s fingers, nimble and thin, curl around the girth, just barely able to close around the whole of it.

 

“Split me open,” Zitao begs, tugging erratically at Yifan’s cock, bowing his head until his face is hidden away in Yifan’s neck, and all he can do is cry and beg against Yifan’s overwhelming scent.

 

Mine mine mine, Zitao’s inner turmoil whines. Whatever Zhou Mi had edged into their drinks tonight with his presence has begun to break Zitao down, almost as though Yifan’s earlier show of possession had triggered an early heat within Zitao.

 

claim me claim me claim me, he thinks, rutting against Yifan, and apparently, he’s whimpering the words outloud, because Yifan’s eyes fall hooded, and he draws his arms around Zitao’s body, thinking nothing but love of the way Zitao’s tail coils around one of Yifan’s wrists. 

 

“You’re all mine,” Yifan growls, and Zitao’s ears flicker back and forth, tickling Yifan’s jaw, and he purrs happily at the claim.

 

“Let me take care of you,” Yifan asks, and Zitao knows he’s asking for permission in his own way—in the only way he can when surrounded by so many people, and Zitao only nods helplessly, always ready to give his loving master every part of himself that he can surrender.

 

Yifan, caring little for the profane display of his own nudity, or the way Zitao, so aroused and tense, looks as though he’s spilled water down the back of his legs with how wet and smeared he has become, urges Zitao up, and drunkenly, they stumble from the banquet hall and rush through the halls of the sprawling palace.

 

So caught up in each other, they are, that they completely miss Zhou Mi, having retreated to the front end of the banquet hall, watching the pair, eyes green with envy.

 

. . . . 

 

Zitao is thrown rather haphazardly onto the bed by Yifan, not even two seconds after they had arrived in Yifan’s (their) bedroom, and he moans at the treatment.

 

Perhaps it is another thing that Yifan should thank the gods for when they sent him Zitao, but Yifan absolutely adores how Zitao, though still masculine and toned, is just thin enough and small enough for Yifan to manhandle him every once in awhile. So waifish, yet so unbreakable.

 

The voyeur in Yifan gives way to seeing Zitao, already so wrecked, flushed in the face and legs slick, and he stands before the bed, his pet sprawled out amongst its expanse, and slowly brings a fist to his own cock, already hard.

 

Zitao’s tunic has risen up thanks to the way he had fallen, and shamelessly exposed his cock, hard and flushed red at the tip, against his abdomen, giving Yifan quite the view.

 

If Yifan weren’t constantly grasping at straws and kept on edge at the very sight and temptation of Zitao, he would most definitely keep Zitao in the nude at all times, if only to bask upon the very beauty of such a creature existing before his eyes, and yet, his own possessiveness and jealousy, as real as an imprint, restrains him from doing such a thing. It is enough that others should get a glimpse of Zitao and the regions of his body marked for Yifan’s touch only at the galas they seldom attend unless forced to. Zitao would never see the light of day if Yifan did such a thing as allow him to go nude, and Yifan is not so cruel.

 

But, perhaps he is a tad deviant, knowing all too well that the toys and metallics are burning Zitao’s skin, given the little hybrid’s writhing state upon the mattress, begging wordlessly for Yifan—always, only Yifan.

 

Still stroking himself, Yifan runs his tongue across his bottom lip.

 

Zitao, again, is no sexual possession to Yifan, but a person with value and thoughts and the most beautiful and intriguing view of the world, so he would never damn himself with objectification—but Yifan be damned if Zitao doesn’t look just as, and infinitely more delectable than the meals served at the gala, earlier.

 

“Touch yourself.” Yifan suddenly finds himself commanding, but this is nothing new, not for the two of them, who indulge in each other’s fantasies daily.

 

Zitao’s eyes flutter shut, Yifan’s gaze burning holes into him, and unconsciously, he runs his hands down his body, anticipating his own touch as Yifan’s.

 

“Of course, Yifan,” Zitao murmurs, his fingers tugging his tunic overhead and letting it fall on the bed where it may. His body is so bronze, so lovely against the silk sheets, which are a surprising shade of soft, off-white, nearly a baby pink—Yifan blames Luna, one of his favorite servants, though he’d much rather call her a friend, for indulging Zitao’s love for pastels and replacing once dark, red sheets, with such a kind color.

 

Yifan shakes his head, even as Zitao’s fingers splay across his chest and down, down, down, until they are mere inches away from his cock.

 

“Master.” He corrects, this time somewhat harshly. “And not there.” Yifan’s eyes narrow at Zitao’s fingers, inching towards his dick—Yifan will control that tonight. Yifan will control all of Zitao tonight.

 

The pet’s ears flatten against his head at the change in tone, a sign of submission and his understanding that their play will be rough tonight, and yet, he is not afraid. Zitao knows Yifan loves him, knows that however rough they play tonight, Yifan will be infinitely more gentle, just moments after they finish. Yifan takes care of him—keeps his promises. 

 

“Master,” Zitao mewls softly, showing his understanding. Without Yifan’s permission, though he doesn’t need it, Zitao adjusts his position into something more befitting for what Yifan is silently relaying of him.

 

The sheets wrinkle and fold around his body as Zitao repositions himself on his hands and knees, ass facing Yifan, legs spread just wide enough to be obscene, and Yifan watches, just as Zhou Mi did, as Zitao toys with himself, the saucy kitsune’s tail swaying back and forth in the air.

 

Oh, does Zitao adore being watched.

 

“Oh—Master,” Zitao moans as his fingers find the butt plug, base wet and glistening against the clefts of his ass, and he tugs slowly on it, easing the flared base out of his hole with little struggle. Yifan watches the puckered entrance tighten and clench around the toy, before it is out of Zitao completely, and his red, messy hole is tightening and untightening at the sudden emptiness.

 

The toy gets tossed aside carelessly, much like Zitao’s tunic, somewhere on the bed where it won’t be disturbed for the rest of the night, and Zitao’s fingers, slip between his cheeks, tracing his hole and triggering the sweetest little gasps and moans from his throat. The sight is so vulgar and so erotic that Yifan cannot help but moan, just watching his pet tease himself open.

 

The hand that is propping himself up curls into the sheets, fingers clenching tightly against the silk, and Zitao takes his lower lip between his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, groaning through his own control as he presses two fingers into himself, imagining them as Yifan’s cock. Of course, the stretch is nowhere near what it will be, and it is nowhere near as fulfilling, but just the knowledge and feeling of his master’s eyes, staring holes into his backside.

 

He feels so appreciated, so longed for, and it is only in Zitao’s nature to want to be wanted and needed, and yet the ultimate contradiction is Zitao’s desire to be possessed and owned. Perhaps it’s a psychological thing, how a lifetime of being a pet in training, having his worth assigned to how many people wanted to fuck him, has in turn made him needy and whiny—he thinks Yifan once called him a nymphomaniac, and Zitao didn’t have it in himself to disagree.

 

He’s aware of his own sexuality, and unafraid of owning it.

 

But, what Zitao is unaware of is how loud he’s being, his fingers search for a spot within himself that he knows only Yifan can reach, and he’s begun whining and begging and grinding back against his fingers, desperate for more, mouth and cock drooling. His tail has fallen, too.

 

“Fuck me, please, please, pleasepleasepleasemasterpleasefuckme,” Zitao’s sweet, soft voice whines, and Yifan salivates at the way Zitao is touching himself, the sounds his fingers make as they disappear in and out of his asshole.

 

Fuck it.

 

Yifan crawls onto the bed towards his pet, and none-too-gently, pulls Zitao’s fingers away, throwing the pet’s hand back towards his head, and Zitao cries out at the loss.

 

“This is all mine, isn’t it?” Yifan growls out, taking a handful of Zitao’s ass. He squeezes the flesh, and then, when Zitao is too distracted by his touch to answer, delivers a hard smack across the cheek that has the skin flushing red at the point of impact, and Zitao urges forward, falling onto his elbows with his back arched against the bed, ass high in the air.

 

“Isn’t it?” Yifan asks again, and he grabs Zitao’s tail and tugs it, hard enough to make Zitao whine, but not hard enough to hurt him.

 

Yifan knows Zitao’s limits, and though he may seem rough and needlessly so, he monitors Zitao’s reactions and stamina carefully. Zitao will never tell Yifan when something hurts or when the threshold of pleasure and masochism turns into pure pain, but Yifan never does anything brutal enough to warrant a confession. Yifan prides himself on how well he takes care of his pet, how well he knows Zitao.

 

“Yes,” Zitao gasps out in submission when Yifan pulls his tail again. His face is smushed up against the sheets, and his back is bent at an angle that will undoubtedly begin to ache if he holds the position for too long, but Zitao doesn’t think about that—in fact, he doesn’t think at all, his mind become a jumble of colors and words and feelings that course through his veins and make him thoughtless.

 

He jerks forward and yelps in surprise when he feels Yifan’s hot breath against his puckered hole, and Zitao’s fists clench the silk sheets so tightly that he fears they’ll rip. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

 

“All yours, only yours—Master—ah!” Zitao cries out and writhes when he feels Yifan’s tongue begin to lap at his entrance, his hips rolling back against Yifan’s face.

 

Yifan wraps his arms around Zitao’s thighs, hugging his forbidden fruit and digging in like a man starving, as though the banquet wasn’t enough to satisfy his hunger. He draws circles with his tongue, licking and kissing and sucking Zitao’s messy hole, the hybrid’s natural lubrication making a mess of Yifan’s face, but Yifan doesn’t care.

 

He hums and growls along Zitao’s skin, turning his head to press a kiss to one of Zitao’s ass cheeks, the hybrid absolutely mewling and losing it beneath the ministrations. Yifan can’t see it, but Zitao’s cock, neglected until later, is drooling, a wet spot forming on the sheets where the pet keeps dragging his hips back and forth, aching for friction in any way, anywhere.

 

“Oh—oh fuck, Master, please!” Zitao babbles incoherently, scrabbling at the sheets with his eyes squeezed shut.

 

Yifan sits back on his haunches, his face a glistening mess, evidence of Zitao’s arousal all over his chin. He grins down at his pet and wipes his mouth clean with the back of his hand.

 

“Please,” Zitao keeps whimpering like a mantra, sweating and undulating against the bed. “Fuck me, fuck me.” He whines, voice high and airy, and he looks back at his master desperately, tears glistening in his eyes from the frustration of being teased and denied all throughout the night, and Yifan strokes the base of Zitao’s tail soothingly.

 

“Patience, my love,” Yifan encourages sweetly, a quiet contrast from the way he was acting earlier. He loves Zitao so much that the very word swells upon his tongue and fills his mouth with the same sweetness and warmth that it fills his heart with, and at the end of the day, Zitao and Yifan always make love, regardless of how rough or gentle in nature it is. The care that so defines their relationship is always present in every action they take.

 

Yifan takes each of Zitao’s ass cheeks in his hands, and spreads his pet wide, Zitao shifting his legs and flushing at the new, somewhat embarrassing position.

 

Of course, his embarrassment only stems from the role he’s playing, for he’s more than accustomed to being spread before his master, and certainly not shy, but as a pet, he is to be bashful, and nothing less.

 

“Oh, now you’re modest?” Yifan sings, a broken smile taking his face, and he traces Zitao’s rim with his thumb, his tongue swiping across his lips. Oh, how delectable does the rosebud look—Yifan cannot help himself when he goes in for seconds.

 

Zitao actually cries out this time, when Yifan licks another fat, wide stripe along his ass. He can feel the soft heat of Yifan’s tongue trace around his hole for the second time, and Zitao presses his face hard into the sheets and chokes out a sob.

 

So good—it feels so good, and already, he finds himself teetering along a delicate edge, and the obnoxious, lewd slurping and wet sounds, coupled with the sensation of Yifan, eating him out for the second time that night, is enough to push Zitao over the edge.

 

“Please, Master,” Zitao begs mindlessly, toes curling as Yifan brings him closer. He can feel his master smile against the clefts of his ass, and a hard slap delivered to his left ass cheek, already brushed crimson from his earlier hit, has Zitao’s back arching.

 

Yifan pulls away for a moment, just far enough to speak without his words going incoherent against Zitao’s skin. He knows the signs—the way Zitao is speaking, yet barely, the way his hips are rolling and grinding and his body is fidgeting and glistening with perspiration. Zitao is about to cum.

 

Yifan smiles somewhat deviantly, though Zitao cannot see it, and presses his index finger against Zitao’s asshole. The entrance twitches, trying to suck the appendage in, and Yifan cooes at how eager Zitao is.

 

“Are you close? Just from this?” Yifan teases, pushing his finger into the second knuckle. Zitao is hot and wet and sucking him in, and Yifan can’t wait to sheath himself inside of Zitao’s sweet little hole.

 

Zitao gasps and nods pitifully against the sheets. One finger isn’t enough, and he feels entirely too far away from Yifan. “More,” He chokes out, eyes squeezing shut as Yifan brushes his prostate, but only barely so.

 

Yifan watches Zitao with earnest, his cock rock hard and nearly purple at the tip from how arousing and beautiful Zitao looks like this, his writhing and whining sourced at Yifan’s fingertips.

 

It is a power trip, and one that is most certainly taken advantage of with other owners and their slaves, should they choose hybrids. It is so easy to reign control over such beautiful creatures, so easy for Yifan to melt Zitao down into a compliant little nympho, and yet Zitao has no qualms giving himself to Yifan like this. The trust is a bigger power trip than the control itself.

 

“More?” Yifan echos back, smiling earnestly at the way Zitao pushes himself back against his hand, and, always one to spoil his little pet, scissors Zitao open with two fingers, marveling at the heat that envelops them, the fluttering of Zitao’s walls against his skin.

 

“I’ll give you more, baby,” Yifan promises. King of Gluttony, Yifan will give Zitao too much.

 

He carefully brushes Zitao’s tail aside, and wraps a fist around Zitao’s cock, and at the touch alone, the pet lets out a low, keening cry, sobbing on the pleasure that electrifies his body and curls his toes. “Master,” He pleads with the word, pleads for more, and Yifan grins.

 

“Can you cum like this?” He begins stroking Zitao’s cock furiously, and starts pumping his fingers in and out of his beloved hybrid, taking in the beauty of the individual before him.

 

He sees the way Zitao’s back bows until his belly is pressed flush against the bed, leaving his ass high in the air for Yifan to play with, sees every convulsion of Zitao’s muscles and the way his body seizes up when Yifan brushes his prostate, but does not directly stimulate it. He watches the way the curve of Zitao’s spine gives way to his fluffy tail.

 

“Only from you,” Zitao gasps out, somehow in his delirious and denied state, knowing exactly what to say to drive Yifan completely and utterly mad. “Only you, Master,” Zitao bites into the sheets, crying out when the words prompt Yifan to press his fingers hard against his prostate and heatedly stroke his cock.

 

Stars blur amongst Zitao’s eyes, and his vision fades in between and crosses over as Yifan teases and prods his prostate. Master, master, master, master, is all Zitao thinks, and he babbles out loud disjointed syllables, biting his lower lip to keep from wailing at the stimulation.

 

Vaguely, he hears Yifan say something to him, feels a third finger slip in, and sweat beads along Zitao’s forehead.

 

The constant building and building makes Zitao tremble, and he can feel the pressure coiled in his abdomen begin to tighten, ready to spring.

 

“Let me cum,” He whines, voice high and pitchy, gasps borderlining sobs. “Please, please, please, Master, g-gonna cum, I-I can’t,” His hands ball into fists at his sides. “Please—”

 

“Cum.” Yifan commands, pressing hard against Zitao’s prostate with his fingers. “Cum for me like this, my pet. I’ve got you.”

 

The words swell from Yifan’s tongue and roll off in plumes, like bundles of flower petals, so soft and full, and Zitao shudders, stars bursting behind his eyes, heart throbbing, and he cries out, loud enough so the palace can hear him through the paper-thin walls, weeping Yifan’s title, master, master, master, over and over again as his body seizes in the most beautiful, elegant bow that an arbalist can only ever dream of recreating.

 

Zitao fists the sheets, paralyzed by sensation as he shoots rope after rope of his cum all across the bed sheets, smearing his very essence across his belly and making a mess that neither he nor Yifan care about. Yifan only cares about the beauty in Zitao’s orgasm, the pitchiness of his pet’s voice, the dull, idle flickering of his tail.

 

“So good, so good for me, aren’t you?” Yifan praises, sweat beading along his brow. He withdraws his fingers from Zitao’s body, stroking him down lightly, watching, bemused, as his body twitches and convulses in the aftermath of his orgasm.

 

But Yifan isn’t satiated yet, isn’t done with him yet. He will never have enough, never be full. Yifan is a glutton, Zitao his greatest indulgence.

 

The prince brings his fingers, soaked in Zitao’s natural lubricant, to his lips, sucking such a sweet honey from his skin.

 

Zitao whimpers against the bed, breath heavy, thoughts fogged by the sheer force of his orgasm, and the knowledge that only Yifan can make him feel like this. Only Yifan can satisfy him like this, can fulfill him like this.

 

And only Yifan can drive him over the edge.

 

His own pleasure, or perhaps the premise of it, hungrily consuming his thoughts, Yifan tugs on Zitao’s ankle.

 

“Turn over, love.” He urges, and ever-so-obedient (yet, only when it matters, much to Yifan’s pleasure), Zitao tiredly turns onto his back, giving Yifan a full view of the cum that is sticky and glistening along his pet’s belly, the sweat that’s flushed his chest a light shade of red, the blush on his cheeks and his damp bangs, plastered to his forehead.

 

Oh—what a pretty picture Zitao makes!

 

Yifan is so hard that it is almost painful, aroused just by the sight of his pet, and he backs off of the bed for a moment to strip himself of his garments, his lavish robes cascading to the floor in a spiral, trousers meeting them there, and he stands before Zitao in all of his shameless, nude beauty.

 

Born into royalty, Yifan’s body was molded into that of a well-structured, well-sculpted prince from an early age, and he certainly reaps the benefits of such an upbringing now that he is in his mid-twenties, and Zitao’s gaze is ever-so-appreciative of his master’s glorious form. Zitao’s thin, lithe body is easily taken by Yifan’s broad-shoulders and sculpted muscles.

 

Yifan’s impatience often gets the better of him, and it does in this instance, as well, and he presses himself against Zitao, lying atop his hybrid, between Zitao’s spread legs, and willing, Zitao crosses his legs around Yifan’s back, reaching his arms around his master’s neck, for closeness if nothing else.

 

“You’re mine,” Yifan murmurs against Zitao’s lips, claiming them in a kiss much sweeter than the one they shared earlier at the banquet. Zitao purrs against Yifan’s lips, their noses brushing gently as they adjust positions.

 

So much said with a single gesture—Zitao knows that now, here, in the bedroom, when Yifan utters that single prophecy, you’re mine, the possession associated with it is not what one would initially think.

 

You’re mine really means, this is mine—this relationship, these moments we share, where nobody else can see, only dream, these are ours. There is too much love between them, suffocating master and slave until they are only Yifan and Zitao, for such senseless, typical feelings of ownership.

 

“Yours,” Zitao agrees once more when they draw away.

 

He can feel Yifan’s cock, hard and grinding against Zitao’s own. Zitao isn’t hard—not yet, not so soon after his orgasm—but he moans and rolls his hips against the overwhelming sensitivity that’s threatening his control.

 

“Master,” Zitao whines, brows bowing together as though he might cry, but Yifan knows Zitao’s limits, knows what grand wonders Zitao is capable of, and will not push him past them, so he only smiles and kisses Zitao’s lips with chaste.

 

“Be good.” He reminds Zitao, and Zitao bites his lower lip hard and cries out softly. He’ll be good for his master. He’ll be so, so good, even if he thinks it’s too much, because Yifan won’t hurt him. Yifan will only ever take care of him.

 

Careful and watching of Zitao’s face, Yifan pulls away just enough to get leverage, and strokes his own cock a few times.

 

“I know you’re ready for me,” He hums, eyeing Zitao’s wet, twitching hole. “I know you can take it.” Yifan growls out, pressing the head of his cock against the tight little entrance, and bottoming out in a single thrust, his balls pressed between the clefts of Zitao’s ass cheeks.

 

Zitao’s eyes grow as wide as the plates served at the banquet, and his jaw falls completely slack, a silent scream tearing through his throat as nothing more than a high-pitched keen, his ears pressed so flat against his head that he almost looks completely human.

 

His back arches off of the bed, so much so that Yifan loops his arms beneath the space created, and pulls Zitao close, waiting for him to adjust. Even with the toy from earlier, and all of the foreplay, Zitao is squeezing around Yifan like a vise, and he groans against his pet’s hair.

 

“Mastermastermastermaster,” Zitao keeps babbling, eyes closed tightly as he holds onto Yifan as though Yifan is the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.

 

Yifan licks along Zitao’s jaw, tongue hot and wet. “You’re ready for me, huh? Ready for me to fuck you open?”

 

Zitao nods frantically against Yifan, murmuring yes yes yes oh god yes please, over and over again, and Yifan knows he needs no further permission.

 

He pulls almost entirely out of Zitao, until only the head of his cock is inside, and slams back into him with so much force that it pushes them up along the bed, the sheets bundling up under Zitao’s back.

 

Zitao tosses his head back and screams as Yifan sets the pace like that, pulling nearly all of himself out, before pounding back into him, the head of his dick punishing Zitao’s prostate.

 

He’s so wet, so tight, so good, that Yifan finds his control fleeting, and he goes harder, harder, pushing Zitao up against the bed with every single punishing thrust, and Zitao’s nails are clawing against his back at the feeling of the silk burning his skin, red welts left behind in their wake.

 

“I can’t, I can’t, can’t—Master!” Zitao sobs out, tears spilling down his cheeks as he drops his arms from around Yifan’s neck in favor of grappling against the twisted, bundled up sheets for leverage against Yifan’s destroying rhythm. His cock is hard again, and he can’t believe it, even as his toes curl and uncurl, even as he tries so hard to match Yifan’s thrusts, only to fall prey to the speed and depth at which Yifan is pounding into him.

 

Yifan brings a hand up, wiping away at Zitao’s tears. “You can, you can—for me, Zitao,” Yifan pants out, kissing Zitao again.

 

He’s close, Yifan. So close, but he wants to cum with Zitao, wants to cum with those beautiful grey eyes, with this beautiful creature, looking at him.

 

He reaches between the their bodies and fists Zitao’s cock, and Zitao cries out another slew of fuck, i can’t, but Yifan shushes him and strokes Zitao fast and hard, matching the irregularities of his own pace.

 

“With me,” Yifan demands, voice so strong. “Open your eyes—look at me when you cum.”

 

A sob tears from Zitao’s throat, and he forces his eyes open, pretty greys misty and teary, and fuck, fuck, fuck, master—Yifan drills straight against his prostate, and Zitao’s body seizes again, arched, silent, cumming, eyes locked on his master the whole time.

 

Zitao’s eyes tear Yifan apart, they’re so beautiful, so pretty, just like the rest of Zitao, and when Zitao cums, this time short little spurts, completely unlike his larger load from earlier, his walls convulse and tighten around Yifan’s cock, and Yifan can’t fucking deal—not with Zitao squeezing around him like this, and not with Zitao’s pretty eyes, wet and glazed over, staring up at him with so much love and trust, and with short, hard thrusts, Yifan cums hard, shooting his seed into Zitao with labored moans.

 

The kitsune sobs, feeling so whole and complete and so close to his master, incoherently murmuring a combination of master and Yifan’s name.

 

When he feels himself soften, Yifan pulls out of Zitao, watching, mesmerized for a moment, as Zitao’s hole clenches desperate around nothing, trying so hard to keep Yifan’s cum in, but a little dribble leaks from the puckered, puffy hole despite his efforts, and mindlessly, Yifan collects it on his finger and falls to Zitao’s side, pressing his finger, soiled with a mix of his cum and Zitao’s own juices, to Zitao’s lips.

 

Tiredly, Zitao laps away at it, gazing hazily at Yifan, and Yifan moans at the sight of it.

 

“You’re so, so good,” Yifan praises again, meaning every syllable.

 

He couldn’t have asked for a better pet.

 

. . . . 

 

Zitao does so love sex and the sweet pleasures that come along with it, especially with Yifan, who is his first and only, but what he loves just as much, if not more, than sex, is the tender moments—sometimes hours, depending on Yifan’s schedule—that come following, when they bathe in an afterglow of love and warmth, and Yifan holds him close and whispers things so sweet that only Zitao’s sweet-tooth could tolerate it.

 

Zitao feels as he did earlier in the evening at the banquet, before Zhou Mi threw a wrench in their leisure; sleepy and content, as he snuggles against Yifan’s chest, arm thrown lazily about his master’s body, and nestles himself close. Yifan is warm and smells like home, a safety that wraps around Zitao like a pillowing blanket and shelters him from anything and everything that may cross his way.

 

The sheets fall just shy of Yifan’s waist, showing off his deep pelvic lines and his neatly-trimmed pubic hair, but coming just so it covers his nether regions and legs. Yifan has always preferred his own body to be almost hairless along the torso, save for his underarms, and yet, adores the peppering of hair along Zitao’s body, including a featuring of black that circles his belly button and fans downward to his lower body. Zitao thinks it's silly, the contrast between the two, but likes it too, anyways.

 

“Yifan,” Zitao murmurs, suddenly pressing himself closer to Yifan and curling his body tighter around the heir’s, feeling an overwhelming wave of attachment pull him towards Yifan, along with an uncontrollable tremor.

 

The prince smiles softly, and rubs Zitao’s bare back soothingly, knowing that after a night as draining and sex as demanding as they had just had, his pet’s emotional levels will fluctuate. Yifan is no stranger to Zitao’s submissive drop, though rare, since they do not often play the role of master and slave in the bedroom, getting enough of it beyond their sanctuary, but Yifan had been riled up, irate at Zhou Mi’s antics and the idea that others may have the very same desire for Zitao, but simply do not act on it, and the thought had left Yifan with a possessive taste in his mouth.

 

“Hold on, Tao,” Yifan murmurs softly, and draws away from Zitao just enough to reach the end of the bed. Earlier, just before Yifan ushered Zitao into his room, Yifan had pulled aside one of the bed servants, Luna, and asked her to prepare a platter of fresh fruits and fine chocolates for when he and Zitao finished, and, always so sweet, Luna had done just that, very quietly excusing herself into the bedroom no later than ten minutes after they had finished, with a silver tray full of all of the foods Yifan had requested, along with a glass of juice.

 

Yifan chooses a chocolate candy from the selection, one of the truffles that he orders from an aged but professional chocolate maker in Belgium. He unwraps it and tosses the red foil shell carelessly to the side of the bed. Yifan’s bed is large enough that two people could lay on either end, stretched out, and still not touch in the middle, so a few stray wrappers will bother them not.

 

Just as Yifan had done hours earlier, he tenderly offers the candy to Zitao, and encourages him to eat, even if he doesn't feel like it, because it helps with the drop, and Zitao accepts the candy as Yifan pushes it to his lips, his tail thumping endearingly against the mattress.

 

Yifan pops the candy into Zitao’s mouth, the hybrid’s lips sucking Yifan’s index finger in until the first knuckle, and Yifan hums at his mischievous little fox.

 

“Silly,” He chides gently and good-heartedly, pulling his finger from Zitao’s lips, tracing lightly over the kitsune’s little smile, and grabbing a candy for himself.

 

As he chews, he pulls the blankets up higher around them, until it modestly covers both of their bodies, and Zitao’s tremors stop. The kit purrs happily and coils his tail around Yifan’s thigh, which tickles Yifan but makes his heart swell. Zitao seldom does this. Yifan’s own fascination with the beauty of hybrids and the oh-so-rare and beautiful Kitsune hybrid has lead him to read countless books about the nature of the kitsune hybrid, and while they are naturally so wonderfully affectionate (as Zitao is), they coil their tails only around those they trust and love the most—and Yifan thrives off of knowing that Zitao loves him.

 

Doing his best to keep from disturbing Zitao, Yifan reaches over to the tray again and pulls from it a cigarette and matches. He carefully lights the stick before returning back beside Zitao and taking a long, slow drag. He knows Zitao doesn't mind the strong scent, but he still turns his head the other direction to exhale plumes of smoke, wanting not to disgrace Zitao by blowing smoke in his face. Yifan has watched in horror at banquets and meetings when other Lords blow their cigarette smoke in the faces of hybrids—once, Lord Siwon of Seoul blew in Zitao’s direction, the kitsune’s wince not going unnoticed by Yifan, who had promptly lost his temper and ordered the Lord away for disrespecting his personal servant.

 

Zitao and Yifan bask in each other for heaven knows how long, Yifan continually feeding Zitao chocolates while contemplating why they didn't just skip the banquet altogether and spend the entirety of their evening as they are now, and Zitao only lays happily at Yifan’s side, tail coiled around his lover’s leg, unmoving unless it is to open his mouth for more of Yifan’s spoils. Really, it is a wonder Zitao hasn't gone soft with all of the treats Yifan feeds him, but his quick metabolism and natural inclination towards hyperactivity keeps his body in check.

 

Before he was gifted to Yifan, Zitao’s meals were nutritious, but terribly bland, even for as fine a training facility as he had come from, and Zitao had been passed to Yifan’s hand half-expecting to be fed table scraps every-other-day, fearful that his new owner would be neglectful and cruel, but Yifan only indulges Zitao’s inner glutton, and finds the kitsune’s sweet tooth to be quite endearing and adorable. Zitao positively glows when treats are present, be they cakes, candies, or the ripest fruits in the kingdom.

 

Yifan can feel Zitao melt beneath the soft glow of their after sex like the chocolates he pinched between his fingers, and when he glances at Zitao, he's fairly pleased to see the blissed-out, glazed over film across Zitao’s eyes. It is a mix of Zitao’s cool down, and his natural exhaustion as he fights to stay awake. Hybrids are terribly lazy creatures by nature, hence why they are often gifted to households of wealth and power, where they work only for their masters, and Zitao, fatigued and already somewhat lethargic, is falling prey to a hybrid’s natural need for slumber and recharge after long bouts of sex.

 

Zitao's tail flicks against the inside of Yifan’s thigh, and the prince, formerly engrossed in the examination of a strawberry and thoughts of Zhou Mi, turns his attention to Zitao within an instant.

 

“Yes?”

 

Zitao squeezes his eyes shut and nuzzles further into Yifan suddenly shy.

 

“I love you,” Zitao meeps out, voice feather soft and sweet as sugar.

 

Yifan’s heart soars—it always does when Zitao admits his love.

 

A quick moment swollen with love and affection, passes between them, before Yifan traces the curve and bow of Zitao’s lips with the pad of his finger, and murmurs, just as sincerely, “I love you, too,” and the kitsune purrs happily in contentment, eyes fluttering shut.

 

Zitao couldn’t have asked for a better master.


End file.
